


All glittering gold

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, F/M, Gold Sick Thorin, Kissing, Major Character Injury, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6479305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to "Pierced by Cupid." Love is tested by gold sickness and battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All glittering gold

Thorin had returned to sit, brooding, on the throne while you lingered on the narrow walkway below the dais watching Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo leave. When the trio had disappeared through the vast, arched doorway, you turned to him where he slumped, his eyes restless and constantly moving with his feverish thoughts.

“You’re not being reasonable, Thorin. How long will you test their loyalty?”

He glanced irritably at you before looking away over the cavernous chamber. “They owe me their loyalty.”

“And you owe them your trust, your patience,” you countered. “Have they not proved themselves time and time again, all of them?”

“You forget your place,” he warned, turning a dangerous gaze on you.

You opened your mouth to speak and closed it again, summoning all of your self-restraint to smother your simmering frustration, bite back the angry words that wanted to claw their way from your throat. “You are not the man you were,” you said finally, carefully. “You regard the ones who love you most with doubt and suspicion…you are consumed with the search for this accursed stone, and I fear for you, Thorin. I pity you.”

“You _pity_ me?” He repeated your words incredulously, in a voice thick with contempt. “I am King under the Mountain. I have no need for the pity of a woodworker’s daughter.”

Anger flared in you again, threatened to burn what love remained between the two of you, frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, to ashes. “There was a time when you spoke of making a woodworker’s daughter your Queen,” you retorted, caring no more for self-restraint. “Or have you forgotten everything you said when you had me bare beneath you in Laketown?”

Even in his madness, Thorin looked stung, and still the words poured from your lips. “Was I only there to warm your bed?” you needled him. “Give you courage to face the dragon with my pretty words of love and faith?”

“Enough!” Thorin bellowed, rising to his feet with an almost convulsive movement, his glittering armor and the mad gleam in his eye making him larger, frightening. “You forget. Your. Place.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth, and just as suddenly as it had flooded you, your fury drained away, leaving behind only a cold, empty regret that filled your eyes with tears.

“I have no place here,” you whispered, searching for a glimpse of the man you loved in the face of the capricious, grasping tyrant who stood before you and finding no such comfort. With a trembling exhale, you turned to begin the long walk to the doorway, leaving him glowering on the dais.

“Where are you going? I have not given you leave,” Thorin said indignantly, behind you.

Your footsteps were loud in the oppressive stillness.

“I am the King!” Petulance crept into his voice. “I am the King, and you will stay until I have finished speaking to you!”

Only the silence answered him, and your retreating form grew smaller.

“Go, then,” Thorin growled, his call echoing on the stone walls. “Go! But know this: if you walk through that door, do not presume to show me your face again.”

With that, you halted, standing frozen beneath the great stone arch before looking back over your shoulder to meet his demanding stare, far away across the chamber. His lips began to curl into a victorious smirk that quickly faded when, without a word, you turned and left the throne room.

* * *

Your feet wandered as of their own accord through the gloomy halls of Erebor until you stumbled upon Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo, wearing hopeless expressions where they huddled in conversation in a disused wine cellar. They fell silent upon seeing you with your heartache written plainly on your face, the four of you looking at one another with painful empathy, and abruptly Dwalin broke away to draw you with one burly arm into a rough but heartfelt embrace.

It was this unexpected kindness that opened the floodgates of your tears, and you wept freely into his bushy whiskers while Balin stepped forward to pat your back gently, his own cheeks wet.

Dwalin released you, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes, and gave a resounding sniff as he walked toward the opposite wall. Sweeping away a thick blanket of cobwebs, he withdrew a bottle from the shelf and wrenched out its cork, smelling the contents. He took a tentative sip and shrugged indifferently before knocking back a heartier gulp and passing you the bottle while he pulled six of its fellows from the shelves.

You winced as the wine slid over your tongue, with its sharpness that hinted at vinegar and stung your throat, and sank to the dusty floor to lean against the wall, watching Dwalin open the other bottles and pass them around before joining you. Balin lowered himself with a heavy sigh to sit on a wooden crate and Bilbo perched on a barrel, and the room was quiet save for the occasional slurp, or the clink of glass upon stone.

Time passed, wine flowed, tongues loosened. If you had hoped that the drink would wash thoughts of Thorin from your burdened minds, its effect was only to dredge up the fond memories of happier times that threw his fearsome avarice into harsher contrast. 

Dwalin was first to break the silence with a wry chuckle, to ask Balin, “d’you remember?” and a trivial, long-forgotten anecdote from Thorin’s boyhood followed, bringing a watery smile to your face and opening the door to more remembrances. One by one, as you shared around bottles and breathed the dust of the dreary cellar, you told stories old and new, brought out foolish jokes for another laugh, shed tears in tribute, and though the thought went unspoken, it was not lost on any of you that the gathering had become a wake for Thorin Oakenshield.

* * *

It was night, and winter’s chill ~~~~had set in in earnest, and Erebor seemed ~~~~darker and gloomier than ever. Bilbo was gone now, safer in the camp of Thorin’s enemies now that the loss of the arkenstone had been revealed, and you’d retreated to the isolation of your chambers more and more as the hours and days ticked by, unable to bear watching or even hearing secondhand of your lover’s further descent into the ravages of this dragonish sickness.

You were wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the faded, damask-covered settee in your shabby sitting room, and had just fed another log to the fireplace when a soft knock came at the door. Warily, you stood and moved to answer it, feeling certain that the lateness of the hour and the bloodshed begun outside the mountain did not bode well for good news. With a turn of the creaking handle and a mighty tug, the heavy door opened, and Thorin stood on your threshold.

The corridor was dim, the sparse lantern light cast his face in shadow, but he had shed his crown, his armor, his kingly furs to stand before you clad in the humble clothes of a traveler that he had worn when you’d fallen in love with him, and there was a clarity in his eyes, a humility in his bearing that you thought had died when he’d taken his first, fateful step into that wretched treasure chamber. He hastened to speak, as though fearing that the door might close upon him again.

“I dare not hope that you still harbor love for me…Mahal knows I am entirely unworthy of it. I am come only because we join the fight in the morning.” There was a helplessness in his expression you’d never seen before, and you listened, breathless, as he went on. “I have never shrunk from death, and yet I find that I shall do so if I am to face it without having begged your forgiveness for all the wrong I have done.” 

Your heart gave a small leap, and yet you hardly dared to hope as you asked, “you are…yourself again?”

Thorin’s eyes grew glassy, and his hand twitched as if to reach out to you before he thought better of it. He only nodded, adding, “too late, I fear.”

“It is never too late to do what is right,” you encouraged gently, blinking back tears of your own.

Thorin’s breath shuddered, and his mouth twisted with the effort of containing a sob. “I am so sorry, _amr_ –” He quickly shook his head, correcting himself. “I am so sorry. I could live ten lifetimes and never make amends for my shame.”

“Oh, _Thorin_.” As though you’d both awakened from a nightmare, what bitterness had passed between you fell away and you reached for him, drawing him into your arms, burying your face in his hair while he wept with gratitude and clung to you like a drowning man to a lifeline. Your lips found his cheek, his temple, brushed the shell of his ear when you whispered, “stay with me.”

He let you lead him to the settee, where he gathered you onto his lap and tucked his head into the crook of your neck while he held you tightly, his large hands splayed on your back to press you close to him. His voice was a low, fearful murmur against your skin. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Your arms around his shoulders clasped him nearer, and you pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “I feared the same for you.”

His eyes met yours again with a haunted look. “I said terrible things to you.”

“We both said things we would take back,” you admitted. “Let us leave them in the past, where they belong.”

“You are kinder than I deserve.”

“I have loved you for too long to let you go now.”

He ventured a small smile and pulled you close again, sighing into your shoulder and inhaling the scent of your skin while you stroked his hair. Silence fell, but for the soft, steady sound of his breathing, and your heart was full with the unimagined joy of this restoration.

“Thorin,” you said at last, quietly, “I want you to make me a promise.”

He looked up into your face expectantly and you brushed his hair away from his forehead, caressed his bearded cheek with the knuckles of your fingers. 

“Promise me that you will come back to me,” you pleaded, “that you’ll be safe, and we will be happy.”

Thorin’s face fell, and the rapid flutter of his eyelids betrayed his distress as he gently took your hand in his own. “It is beyond my power to guarantee,” he said heavily.

“I know,” you nodded, tears welling once again. “Do it anyway.”

Love mingled with regret in his expression, but he looked into your eyes with a somber resolve and took your face into his warm, calloused hands. “I promise I will come back to you,” he vowed, a tremor threatening in his voice. “Nightfall tomorrow will see me safe in your arms…and we will be happy together.”

Your arms enfolded him once more, guiding his head to the welcoming pillow of your breast, and a bittersweet tear fell into his hair as you yearned with all of your strength to believe his words. The night passed, and you remained there on the sofa in quiet togetherness, holding to each other with a fragile contentment too solemn for lovemaking and too sweet to squander on sleep.

* * *

Erebor’s entrance hall was a chaotic crush of bodies, some whole, many wounded, and your eyes frantically scanned the churning crowd for the one person you wished to see most. You turned in a circle, trying to exhale the fear that gripped your chest like a vise, and had just completed a desperate survey of the Great Hall when you heard a sound sweeter than music: your name, called by a beloved voice that was hoarse with shouts and battle cries.

Thorin made his way through the entrance hall supported by two figures beside him, and as he came closer he shook off Oin’s and Dwalin’s guiding hands to hobble forward to meet you where you flew to him, flinging yourself into his arms. He was filthy with grime and stinking of orc’s blood, but he was warm and real and living, and his arms around you were strong, clutching you tightly in relief.

“You’re alive,” you whispered, “thank the gods, you’re alive.”

“I had a promise to keep,” he answered, and as he pulled back to give you a reassuring smile, you noticed his ashen complexion and the grimace that pulled at his mouth when he shifted his weight.

“You’re hurt,” you said worriedly, looking him over and gulping a breath of air when your eyes alighted on the gaping tear in his boot and the blood that stained the floor beneath it.

“It’s not so bad,” he said bracingly, with a backward glance at Oin and Dwalin, at which they stepped forward to flank him. “But it does need seeing to. Come with me?”

“Of course,” you nodded quickly, and Dwalin threaded his arm beneath Thorin’s shoulders to bear his weight as the little party moved toward the corridor that led to the King’s chambers.

While Oin began the agonizing process of working Thorin’s boot free from his wounded foot, you obeyed the healer’s tactful suggestion to go with Dwalin to bring water from the nearby hot spring to fill the bath. Dwalin strode back and forth purposefully, bearing a large washbasin as though it were a teacup, while you trotted alongside with your bucket, eliciting a dry chuckle from his lips when you repeatedly sloshed water over your feet in your hurry to keep up.

With several trips, you’d managed to fill the large, marble tub, and by the time you had laid soap and towels at the ready, Dwalin had returned to the Great Hall to oversee the housing and feeding of the returning armies and Oin had cleaned, stitched, and bound Thorin’s foot and led him into the bathroom.

“Thank you, Oin,” Thorin clasped the elder dwarf’s shoulder with a tired smile. “See to the wounded. I am in good hands here.”

Oin bowed his head, giving Thorin’s arm an encouraging grip before taking his leave.

You moved to help Thorin free himself from his layers of stained, sweat-dampened clothes, tossing them aside to be discarded, and he sank into the hot water with a heavy sigh, propping his bandaged foot on the edge of the tub. Kneeling beside the tub, you dunked a clean washcloth into the water and began to work the wet cloth over the firm swells and ridges of his chest, carefully scrubbing away the dirt and congealed blood that matted its dark hair while he rested his head on the tub’s sloping side and closed his eyes in weariness. You thought he’d fallen asleep when you squeezed out the washcloth and began to dab gently at his face, but at your tentative touch his eyes opened to meet yours, warm and blue as a summer sky, and a smile crept across his lips, coaxing one of your own.

“What did Oin say about your foot?” 

“It will heal before my next battle,” he answered stoically.

“Thorin Oakenshield, don’t you speak to me of battles,” you scolded, turning your attention to a welt on his cheek. “I forbid it.”

He gave a small huff of laughter. “Spoken like a queen.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” Thorin’s hand closed over your own, stilling its motion and drawing your gaze to his eyes. “The mountain is won. The Defiler is vanquished. My life has been spared me, and there is no one to whom I would rather pledge it than you.”

You wrung out the washcloth and draped it over the tub’s side before sitting back on your heels to look at him, asking quietly, “what would you have me do?”

His voice grew solemn. “Sit enthroned by my side as my Queen…share my home and my bed as my wife.”

A smile plucked at your lips, and you felt suddenly, unaccountably bashful. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Well, this is not quite the place for a proper betrothal,” he admitted, his expression turning playful. “I can’t have you telling our children that their father asked for your hand while washing off orc filth in the bath.”

Your first genuine laugh in weeks bubbled up from your throat, releasing all of the pent-up fear and worry from your soul, and he chuckled with you, and when the laughter faded he entwined his fingers with yours and murmured, “come here.”

You leaned over the side of the tub to meet him as he sat up with renewed strength to press his lips to yours in a kiss that was slow, warm, grateful, filled with the promise of a lifetime of devotion.

“I love you,” he said fervently, pressing his forehead to yours, cradling your head with one wet hand.

“I love _you_ ,” you smiled.

“ _Will_ you marry me?”

Your finger lovingly traced the curve of his lips, and those piercing blue eyes looked into the depths of your own and found no hesitation there. “I will.”

Thorin kissed away the happy tear that had spilled to your cheek and leaned back again in the tub, beaming through his exhaustion and wounds. “Stay with me tonight, _amralime_? I need you beside me.”

Your mind flitted to a heady moment on a cold night, to loving confessions and promises made amidst the damp gloom of Laketown.

“Tonight,” you smiled, recalling the words that had warmed you, given you hope, words you’d silently repeated to yourself in the darkest hours, “and for every moment that is granted us.”


End file.
